


It's Quiet Uptown

by Femalefonzie



Series: Helpless [2]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: A Bit of Spot Conlon's Backstory, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Era, Character Death, Cheating, EVeryone Loves Crutchie, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity, Jack Kelly Is The Dad Friend, M/M, Making Up, Near Death Experiences, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Race Fucked Up, Spot Conlon Needs a Hug, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, The Brooklyn Newsies Are Good Bros, The Crutchie/Jack Kelly is very light, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Femalefonzie/pseuds/Femalefonzie
Summary: The Sequel to First Burn.Four months after being blacklisted from Brooklyn, tragedy has Race and the Manhattan newsies crossing the bridge to offer their support.
Relationships: Crutchie/Jack Kelly, Hot Shot/York (Newsies), Spot Conlon & Hot Shot (Newsies), Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Helpless [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578820
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was encouraged to continue First Burn and some of the suggestions in the comments had some pretty good ideas; one, in particular, suggested to keep writing drabbles with the Newsies based off Hamilton songs and I was inspired. It's Quiet Uptown was originally just going to be one really long fic but I decided to break it up into three parts for pacing purposes. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

"Crutchie is late."

Race looked up from the doodles he had been tracing in the condensation of the window and over at Jack pacing the length of the room. The streetlights had come on nearly an hour ago. By this time it was normal for the boys of lower Manhattan to have wrapped up their sales for the day, grabbed something to eat, and wandered back to wherever they planned on spending the night. Albert had gone home to his dad and brothers, walking along with the Jacobs siblings talking about the hot meals they had waiting for them at home. Race scarfed down the roll he had swiped from a bakery in Chelsea when the man behind the counter wasn't looking and tried not to drool at the mention of mashed potatoes and carrots. With nothing else to do Race joined Jack by the window and waited for the other newsies to come home. Kelly had developed the habit of staying up until every bunk was full and boy accounted for in case someone had trouble. Some of the younger boys got a laugh out of it; out of Jack embracing his parental role over them. They were too young to remember the boys who had gotten jumped, were too hungry, or too tired to keep walking and were found frozen to death in an alley. Race remembered them though and so did Jack. When Jack took charge and began his nightly routine of guarding the door the numbers dropped significantly.

"Crutchie's never late." Finch commented without looking up from the game of cards he, Romeo, Elmer, and Specs had set up on the floor in the middle of the room. "Think they jumped him?"

"They wouldn't dare." Jack replied though there was a shakiness of his words that suggested otherwise. "Spot gave me his word. Besides everyone over there loves Crutchie. They wouldn't do anything to hurt him."

Behind his hand Specs chuckled, "Can you blame them though? Guys like the human personification of sunshine."

"They could probably use a little of that." Elmer agreed and though he didn't dare to look, Race could feel the younger boy's stare on the back of his neck.

Lower Manhattan had a claim in Brooklyn. One small space but a space that was theirs nonetheless. Up until four months ago that space outside of Sheepshead was Race's turf. Every morning after grabbing his papers, Race would cross the Brooklyn bridge and set up shop there where he could keep an eye on the horse races. They knew him there by name, most of the vendors liked him and offered him discounts on food and water on especially hot days, or offer him somewhere to rest for a second to heat up on the cold days. The Brooklyn boys hadn't been lying when they declared it the friendliest place on earth but that was before. Now if Race were to cross the bridge in a best case scenario he'd be spat at and chased out, worst case he'd be killed. That what happens when you break the King of Brooklyn's heart. 

Four months ago Spot Conlon, t _he_ Spot Conlon, was exclusive with Race. They'd meet up at the end of the day, get food together, stargaze on the bridge, the whole nine yards. Spot had taken to trying to teach Race how to swim, Race had taken to trying to teach Spot how to read, and sometimes the Manhattan newsie would even sleep over at the Brooklyn boarding house. He knew the boys there well and didnt tremble with fear like the boys from Queens or the Bronx whenever the gigantic soliders of Brooklyn happened to be passing by. Then Race ran into an old friend and all that went to hell in a heartbeat. How was he supposed to know that Spot was looking for him and how was he supposed to know that meeting up with his old neighbor (and childhood crush) would end up with them having sex in her parlor? Race winced at the thought. He should have known better. It was stupid of him to try and dial down his guilt, even if it was just inside his own mind. It didnt change anything. Race broke Spot's heart and Spot, in turn, broke up with him and Race's connection to Brooklyn. While he didnt threaten Race with anything specifically, everyone knew that having the Manhattan newsie step foot in the other borough was too bug a gamble even for an addict like Race. Still, they needed someone to sell in Sheepshead. Crutchie, with his disarming smile and charming personality, happily volunteered to take Race's place. For four months Crutchie had been taking the trolley into Brooklyn to sell and returning with the other boys just as the nights turned dark. Sheepshead seemed to be a good spot for him, where the vendors who once dotted on Race now lavished him with extra food and sales, and despite having to pay to get to the other borough (Race always saved himself the fare and walked) Crutchie was bringing home more pay than ever before. 

At least one good thing came out of Race's break up with Spot...

Race shook that thought of his head and turned his attention back to the doodles he'd been scribbling in the windows. Nothing fancy just a couple of smiley faces and hearts, one of which he had absentmindedly scrubbed the name _SEAN_ inside. Race quickly rolled up his sleeve and wiped it away before the other boys could notice. Over the past few months the other boys had started to let up on him about the whole thing and act like everything was normal again. Well nornal enough. Race was more than aware that he had developed his own legend in the outlying boroughs as the only person who ever got the better of the infamous Spot Conlon. They were exaggerated of course; Queens had this idea that Race and Spot had gotten into a fistfight on the bridge and that Race had nearly tossed the other hot over the side while Richmond believed that Race may have pulled the wool over Conlon's eyes and stolen something from his room at the Brooklyn boarding house. They preferred their versions of the story; it meant that Spot was still inhuman but that Race was too. But Race knew the difference. And so did his fellow newsies of lower Manhattan. 

Fuck, he missed Spot...

"If he's not back in the hour, I'm crossing the bridge to to look for him." Jack declared. "Any volunteers to go with me?" 

Race, if possible, would have thrown his hand up but instead just leaned his head against the window that had been serving as his canvas. He saw movement against the darkness, made clear by the glow of a streetlight across the road. "Not necessary." He told Jack. "Here comes eternal happiness now."

They heard the door to the boarding house swing open, the thud of boots, and the soft clunk of the end of Crutchie's crutch hitting the wood floor. Seconds later the newsie in question rounded the corner into the common room and the other boys were finally able to get a good look at him. Elmer's jaw gapped open. Finch dropped his hand, his cards falling face up on the table where the other boys could see them. Romeo gulped. Specs took his glasses off and quickly dabbed at the lens with the end of his shirt, holding that he was just seeing some dirt that had become caked on the glass when he was out selling but just didnt notice until now. Race sat up straight, swinging his legs down off the window ledge so he was in a better position to go. Jack had gone completely white. "Crutchie?" He asked, his voice cracking on the name. The other boy just hobbled into the room without answering and flopped down exhausted onto one of the old chairs they had pulled in from an alley. "Crutchie!"

From head to toe Crutchie Morris was covered in a thick layer of pitch black soot. He took his hat off and gave it a shake sending flakes of ash crumbling onto the floor. His face was grey, his hair matted with the stuff. Crutchie didn't say anything. Just put his hat, now somewhat clean, back on his head and leaned back to catch his breath. The other boys had surrounded him; Jack kneeling one side and Race on the other, Elmer, Specs, Romeo and Finch in front. 

"What happened?!" Elmer demanded. 

"You look stunned!" Romeo observed. 

"Go get some water!" Jack shouted and Finch went scrambling from the room towards their sorry excuse for a kitchen. "Give him some room! Give him some room!" 

"What happened Crutch? What happened?"

Finch reappeared with a glass of water in hand. He handed it over to Crutchie who took it and downed it before the others had time to blink. He sat there for a minute, coughing and smacking his lips, not wanting to waste a single drop. The others waited. Some of the other boys who had gone to bed, hearing the commotion, had woken up and strolled downstairs to see what was going on. They peaked their heads in through the doorway but dared not get any closer. Finch took the now empty glass from the other boy and went back to the kitchen to refill it. After Crutchie finished off the second glass he spoke, "There was an incident in Brooklyn." He explained, his normally soft and bubbly voice now coarse and rough. "A fire at one of the factories. I had to stay. Anyone who could was trying to help put it out..."

"Did anyone die?" Romeo asked too quickly. The three older boys all shot him a look and he held his hands up in defense, "I'm only thinking of the headlines."

Crutchie didn't react. "People died." 

Elmer wiped some sweat off his forehead, "Oh shit." 

Jack sighed and wrapped an arm around Crutchie's shoulders. "I'm so sorry you had to see that-" 

"That's not what got me." Crutchie interrupted. "You ever see them Brooklyn boys cry? Its unsettling. Like the wails of banshees."

"Wait. The brooklyn boys were crying?" Finch asked, "Was Spot Conlon?"

"It was the most horrifying thing I think I ever heard in my life." Crutchie confirmed. "I can still hear it and see him dropping to his knees, pounding the ground in my head..."

That comment earned Crutchie a couple of strange looks and raised eyebrows. If there was one thing Spot Conlon hated it was looking vulnerable infront of other people. It was why he always came down hard when he felt betrayed or taken advantage of. It was why Race couldn't step foot in Brooklyn anymore. What could have possible happened that would cause the King of Brooklyn to so publicly, and in front of both strangers and acquaintances, break? A chill rolled down Race's spine and he shivered at the thought that had crawled it's way inside his brain. Jack bit down on his lower lip and scanned the faces of the other boys. They had all come to the same conclusion, it seemed, and someone was going to have to be the one to ask. "Did...did he know someone who-" Being the leader of lower Manhattan came with its downsides. Crutchie just nodded. "Oh no."

"Jack, that factory...it was mostly kids-"

"Oh no."

"That's not it though." Crutchie took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Hotshot's dead."

"What?" 

"He was selling nearby I guess and heard the noise! All I know is by the time I got down there they were hauling bodies out and Spot and his buddies got there just in time to see him." Crutchie leaned back against Jack's arm and the other boy gave him a supportive little squeeze. He could still see it all unfolding before his eyes; he could still smell the smoke, hear the screams ringing in his ears, see Spot Conlon's face red and hot with tears. "I never saw Spot Conlon cry before. I don't want to see it again." 

"My god." Elmer mumbled softly under his breath. 

Jack leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Crutchie's forehead. "It's okay Sweetheart. You're okay." 

"What do we-" Romeo trailed off noticing that during the commotion one person had disappeared from the room. He looked around for some trace of the missing newsie and heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming down the stairs followed shortly by the grunts and complaints of the littles. He peered out into the hall to see Race tugging on the old coat he owned (donated by the lovely nuns) and lacing up his boots. The littles sat cross-legged on the stairs watching him rush. "Race?"

Race finished lacing up one boot and moved on to the other. "I have to go. I have to go to Brooklyn-"

"Are you stupid?" Finch called out fron the parlor. "Spot'll-"

"Race is right." Jack cut him off. "Everybody get dressed and bring whatever you can. We're going to the Brooklyn lodging house." 


	2. Chapter 2

"Its a lot darker over here, don't you think?" Romeo asked for what had to be the eighth time since they crossed the bridge. By now most of the other boys had elected to ignore him leaving him with no choice but to direct all of his dumb questions to his only Manhattan brother who wouldn't shoo him away. 

Race, who had somehow been stuck walking alongside Romeo, just shrugged and tried to quicken his pace. "I never noticed."

Jack was instant that they make the journey across the river that night to offer their sympathies and support to their brothers in Brooklyn. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal except most of the Manhattan newsies avoided the borough like the plague. Jack, Race, and Crutchie were the only ones with a suitable understanding of the layout of Brooklyn but if you thought that meant the other boys would listen and follow along without asking any questions then you were sorely mistaken. Every five minutes it seemed someone in their little mobile army came up with their own way to get to the Brooklyn boarding house and just had to pipe up in case the other boys hadn't thought of it yet. Seeing as Jack was focused on Crutchie, making sure the other boy didn't tire himself out (which the boy in question protested because he was on his feet all day Jack he could handle this!) these questions fell on Racetrack to answer. So when Specs peaked back over his shoulder and asked, "Are you sure we're heading the right way?" Race thought nothing of it. 

"Cut through the alley. We'll be there in two." It was the shortcut he had always taken when he came over to visit. 

"Race," Finch said and something about the tone of his voice had Race stopping dead in his tracks. "You know what they been saying about Spot Conlon?"

What hadn't they been saying about Spot Conlon? Dependent upon the person the rumors surrounding Spot's well being varied and Race wasn't sure which one was worse. Some were saying that he had moved on, that the day after he left Race standing near the edge of the bridge he was out and about Brooklyn with a new piece of arm candy. That Spot had never really cared much for Race and kept him only to keep his bed warm at night and the second the Manhattan boy got disloyal, he was tossed aside. Others said that Spot was in a swirl of misery and regret; that he hadn't been eating, that he was growing visibly weaker, thinner, gaunter by the day. That he got up to sell only when he absolutely need to; when he needed to get the cash necessary to secure his place in the Brooklyn boarding house and for nothing else. The thought of Spot in any kind of pain made Race want to claw his own guts out, let alone the fact that he was the one to cause it, but the image of Spot, _his spot_ walking around, arms linked with someone else, looking at them in complete adoration with those beautiful brown eyes...Race wanted to die when he thought about that. 

...Was that what it was like for Spot when he saw Race and Barbara? He shook that thought of his head. He couldn't think about that right now. They weren't in Brooklyn for him, they were here for Hotshot. Whatever he and Spot had, he couldn't afford to dwell on it right now. When everything was settled and their comrade was buried, then Race could seal himself up in the boarding house for a couple of days and lament every decision he had ever made that lead to heartbreak. Right now he had to play the part of a union brother. "I know. I don't care. I still want to help."

At first glance, the Brooklyn boarding house looked nearly identical to the one the Manhattan boys called home. The only real obvious differences existed inside. It was cleaner than Manhattan's, neater, and the boys had discovered long ago the best way to make use of the crawl spaces and attic. They'd turned the space into a single bedroom (that was all it could really fit) and decided that the reigning king of Brooklyn would occupy it. Before Spot, it had belonged to Stitches and before Stitches, it had been Lefty's. Both of the former leaders had taken the liberty of carving their names into one of the support beams, a reminder of their authority and time spent as a Brooklyn newsie. Spot carved his while Race was in the room lounging on the cot that Spot called his bed. From his position on the makeshift mattress, the Manhattan boy instructed his paramour how to shape his letters. Race used to spend a lot of time there. 

They reached the bottom of the steps leading to Brooklyn's front door when Jack signaled for them to stop. Hang back a minute." He instructed and then climbed the front steps and knocked for himself. There was no clear way of knowing what the Brooklyn boys may do seeing all of Manhattan at the door (not that all of them would fit) and Jack wanted to get a good sense of what they were working with that night. He could hear footsteps, heavy boots crossing old creaking wood as they made their way to the door. It opened and Jack found himself face to face with someone he had only seen a couple of times before. Someone who he would have preferred to be upstairs when Manhattan came a-knocking. 

"Hell-" York fell short the moment he laid his eye on the other boy standing on his doorstep. "Jack Kelly."

It was no secret that York had no love lost for the Manhattan newsies or of the borough in general. Twice in the past five years working the streets did he dare to cross the bridge and both times resulted in him coming perilously close to strangling one of the Manhattan boys. His opinion of Jack had been cemented at the rally and he had absolutely no qualms about sharing it with anyone who would listen. Untrustworthy, shifting, and scoundrel were just some of his favorite words to use when divulging his opinion. If it hadn't been for Hotshot and Spot forcing him to stay until the matter was fully resolved, York would have marched his grumpy ass back across the bridge into Brooklyn the second he heard Jack speak that night in the theater. The only ever time he entered Manhattan was to kill Racetrack Higgins and if he had been there that night, he very well would have. Race had been lucky when he made the seemingly innocent decision to take the long way home that night, missing the barrage of Brooklyn boys by hours. That hadn't been good enough for York. He wanted to linger, wanted to wait and deal with Higgins himself. Finally, Hotshot just picked York up and carried him back across the river to their boarding house, a squirming one-eyed newsie over his shoulder the entire time. 

This time Hotshot wasn't there to keep him from doing anything stupid. Jack gulped, "Hey York. Long time no see-"

York moved fast but Jack moved faster. The Brooklyn newsie went to slam the door shut but Jack stepped forward blocking him from doing so. York hissed like a rabid cat but Jack wasn't budging. From over York's shoulder, another newsie appeared, "York? Who's at the door?"

"No one!" The one-eyed boy snapped but his fellow Brooklyn newsie wasn't having it. He reached over him and pushed the door open, allowing Jack to get a good look at him. He recognized him from the rally. The only Brooklyn newsie bold enough to wear blue over their trademark colors in the form of a thin scarf he always tied around his neck. Jack couldn't think of his name, luckily York supplied it with an outraged yell. "Myron!"

"Oh. Hello Jack." Myron's eyes went past the leader of Lower Manhattan and landed on the crowd amassed at the bottom of the steps. "And Manhattan...all of Manhattan?"

"Actually Albert is at home, Davey, and Les too. They don't room with us usually." Jack explained. "But we heard about the fire. Wanted to come offer our support."

"We don't need it." York snapped and tried to push his way past Myron to take a swing at Jack. Luckily Myron was built like an icebox and York, though feisty, was outmatched."Go home!"

"York." Myron said with an eye roll. He held his hand out more or less pinning his Brooklyn brother to the wall and opened the door further making room."You guys can come in if you want. It's warmer at least."

"Thank you Myron."

For all of his faults (and searing hatred for Jack Kelly) York had his moments and his limits. He stomped off into the parlor and dropped down on an old couch they had pulled in from the alleys, arms folded in front of his chest and stewing in his own anger. That is until Crutchie appeared in the doorway flanked by his Manhattan brothers. York's exterior softened and he scooted over, making space for the other boy. "Hey, Crutchie." He greeted, his voice the softest Jack had ever heard it. "Your leg okay? They didn't make you walk it did they?"

"I'm fine," Crutchie replied with a shrug and accepted the now empty space. "How are you guys holding up?"

"Mostly we're okay," Myron said and came in to lean against the couch that York and Crutchie were occupying. He did not sit but his eyes were locked on York. "Mostly."

Jack sighed and wiped some sweat off of his brow. It was so surreal. The fact that he had been there with them one minute and gone the next. He was still struggling to wrap his head around it. "Do you guys know why Hotshot would-"

"Because he always put others first." York snapped and if it hadn't been for Myron's quick reflexes, reaching out and pulling him back onto the couch, he would have been right up in Jack's face. But being couched was not going to stop the feisty Brooklyn boy from ranting. "He had no reason to go in! The city puts up those firehouses for a reason! He had no business going in there but he did and now he's dead!"

It took the Manhattan boys a second to realize that York's explanation wasn't just for them. He was struggling to make sense of it too. That much was clear when York finally doubled over and put his head in his heads. He mumbled, "Stupid motherfucker...." 

Myron didn't let go of York's arm. He'd known the other boy long enough to realize that it was only a matter of time until he was back up in someone's face; most likely Jack's. "Hotshot always sold on that block. We just assumed he saw the smoke and ran in to try and help." He explained. "He always liked to help."

"And look what it got him!" York exclaimed so suddenly that all of the Manhattan boys jumped. But he didn't move from the couch. Just kept his head ducked low and mumbled some more. "...Should have known better."

The Manhattan boys all exchanged looks amongst themselves. Each and every one of them had something they wanted to say, something they had to say, but they collectively couldn't find the words. Someone had to say something. It was just a matter of one of them being brave enough to try and get them out. Ultimately, this responsibility fell on Jack once again. "I'm sorry for your loss. Hotshot was a good guy."

"A good guy who would have lost his mind at seeing all of Manhattan gathered around his home." York's gaze fell on Racetrack peaking out behind Finch and Romeo's shoulders, "And who would have beaten _you_ half to death! What the fuck is he doing here Jack?"

The air in the room went completely cold and Race could feel the glares from the boys of Brooklyn, their scorn, digging into his very soul. He swallowed a lump that he wasn't aware he even had in his throat before trying to explain himself, "I wanted to-"

"I don't give a shit what you want!" York thundered and sprung forward to try and take a swing at Race's face. Race stumbled back, nearly tripping over his brothers' feet in his haste to put as much distance between himself and York as possible. "Get out of my house! You have no right to be here!"

Myron moved quickly, tightening his grip on York's arm and pulling him back to keep him from landing a hit. "York, calm down, please. You're going to wake-"

"Shut up!" York screamed and Myron's grip loosened. He took a step back but York didn't move. The one-eyed newsie sighed and wiped some sweat from his forehead. He was getting overheated. "Aww shit Ronnie. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. That little bastard just makes me so mad. I'm sorry." He held his arm out, a sorry attempt of a peace offering but an offering nonetheless. Myron slunk forward and let York drape his arm around his shoulders in a half-hug. 

"Just calm down. You're going to wake the littles."

"How'd they take it?" Elmer asked hoping to get off of this awkward exchange and on to something else. Anything else. 

"About as well as you'd expect." Myron replied, "Suddenly their big brother is gone just like their parents...its the worst possible news you could give them." For many of them, for most of them, all they had were their fellow newsies. They were brothers. They looked after each other. And Hot Shot, well he had been one of the oldest of the Brooklyn newsies, the guy who kept the littles out of the trouble and the bigger boys in line. All of those kids, too young to remember a time without Hot Shot, suddenly now had to face life without him. 

Racetrack had been banking on standing and mourning in silence. He'd, once again, force the role of communication onto Jack and try not to draw any attention to himself. He'd be quiet for one of the rare moments of his life. But it did not escape him that there was someone missing from this picture. Someone who should have been here was not and he found himself speaking without realizing it, "Where's Spot?"

"Upstairs," Myron replied, earning himself a slight shove from York. He ignored it. "Look, Hotshot used to look after Spot when he was just a little. They was close. So when he died..." The Manhattan boys didn't need to hear anymore. Crutchie had seen Spot's reaction first hand outside of the factory; they knew that it wasn't good. Myron wiped his eyes off on the sleeve of his shirt before adding, "Spot wants to be alone. We're respecting that. He'll come down when he's good and ready."

"Poor guy," Jack mumbled, his gaze quickly darting up to the ceiling. He would not be surprised if Spot didn't come down for the next month if not longer. 

York snorted and pulled his arm back from around Myron, opting to cross them in front of his chest instead, "Yeah. It's been a pretty fucked up year for Spot. Though you already knew that didn't you Higgins?" 

"York-" Myron warned him; his voice dropping to a low growl but York was not backing down.

"If Hotshot were alive right now you know what he would want to do more than anything else?" He asked, jabbing an accusing finger into Race's chest. "To beat you senseless! And I am more than ready to honor his memory!"

Myron was quickly growing more and more infuriated with his fellow Brooklyn brother's behavior and stomped forward to grab him by the shoulders and try to pull him away  
"Lewis. Stop it."

"Don't call me Lewis." York screamed and squirmed in Myron's hold. "What? You expect me to believe you're fine with this asshole being over here after everything he did?" 

"No, but I have a bigger problem with you running your mouth at people who came over to try and help us."

"Brooklyn doesn't need help!" York insisted with a yell. "Brooklyn needs-"

"Why are you screaming?" A familiar voice asked. "I could hear you two floors up..."

York and Myron both froze. In fact, Manhattan did too. The room which, not even two seconds ago was about to erupt in a fight, went deathly quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the slight creaks coming from the old wooden staircase as someone finished the walk down them and rounded the corner in the hall. York was the first person to move; he wriggled out of Myron's arms and sprinted to the doorframe to try and obscure the view of the crew currently gathered in the parlor with their jaws hanging open. "Sorry Spot." He said quickly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, you did. Now, what's gotten you so upset." Spot was able to catch a glimpse of the twenty-some pairs of eyes just staring at him from behind York's shoulders. "Oh. Was anyone going to tell me that Manhattan is in our parlor?" York shrugged sheepishly and reluctantly stepped off to the side that Spot could address Manhattan directly. It would be the first time Race had seen hid former flame since Spot left him standing at the entrance to the Brooklyn bridge so many months ago.

Spot Conlon didn't look like himself. Maybe it was because he had so obviously been crying before coming downstairs to confront the noise. His eyes were red and puffy, standing in stark contrast to his skin which was unusually pale. In any other circumstances, Race would have taken one look at Spot like this and assumed that he was sick. The leader of Brooklyn seemed thinner too; like he was drowning in his own clothes. He hadn't been eating. Not like he used to. He stood there in the doorframe, arms in front of his chest, scowling out at the boys standing before him, a shell of his former glory, but to Race he was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Until this moment he had believed that he would never see his former paramour again. "Spot." He murmured softly. The only thing he could think of doing at that moment was surging forward and throwing his arms around the other boy but he remained frozen in place. Race couldn't move. 

Jack, however, _could_ move. "Sorry to disturb you," He said. "We just heard about Hotshot and wanted to see if there was anything that we could do to help."

"Sorry to hear it, man." Specs piped up from his place among the crowd. "He was a good guy."

"There's not much you can do really. Even the great Jack Kelly can't raise the dead." Spot said, stepping into the parlor and standing alongside York and Myron, still holding onto each other; Myron trying to keep York from hitting somebody and York still squirming. Spot ignored them and carried on as usual. "There's a cemetery a couple blocks over with a nice view of the harbor. We're burying him there. Gonna try and give him a nice service."

"I can talk to Katherine-" Jack started to say but Spot stopped him. 

"No money." He interrupted. "He would have hated the charity."

"Maybe she could do a story on it. Get his name in the paper?" Finch suggested. 

"A fitting end to a lifelong newsie." Specs agreed with a nod. 

Spot sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it up and out of his eyes. "He would have liked that." The king of Brooklyn said softly. 

Jack let out a sigh himself and placed his hand on the younger Newsie's shoulder, giving him a small but comforting squeeze. Anything more and Spot would have just pulled away and told him to get out. "I'm sorry Spot." 

The king of Brooklyn managed a small smile, "Not your fault Jack. For once." 

"For once," York repeated with a bitter laugh causing the other two Brooklyn boys to roll their eyes. 

"You'll have to forgive York. He and Hotshot were..." Spot made a gesture many would consider lewd and some would consider confusing with his hands and that was all Jack needed to understand the situation. 

"I get it." There was no judgment among the boys throughout the five boroughs. Life on the streets meant you grew close with your brothers, maybe even began to see them in a different way, in a way that could not be considered brothers. Half of Manhattan was guilty of getting close with each other. Fuck, the only reason York was York them any guff over being there was Spot's history with Racetrack. The idea that Hotshot may have been sharing a bed with his fellow Brooklyn newsie was not a headline to Jack Kelly. "You think they're always going to be there and then the next minute they're just...gone."

"Yeah." Spot agreed and while he was facing Jack, his gaze seemed to pour right through him and lay into Race. The older Manhattan newsie took a cautious step back as a result. "That seems to be a reoccurring theme with the people in my life."

Jack fell silent and the entire room followed suit including Spot's two subordinate newsies. Myron and York exchanged a look but neither said a word, whether it was a fear for how Spot would react to them attempting to respond or a genuine lack of knowledge in regards to what to say, it was impossible to say. Spot looked around the room, giving everyone a once over, studying each and every boy to see if they dared to approach him. When no one did, he nodded to himself. The king was asserting his dominance over the court. 

Spot turned heel and headed towards the front door, calling back over his shoulder and offering a weak excuse, "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back later."

Race finally was able to move. He pushed past Jack and made a dash for the door, calling after the smaller boy's retreating form. "Spot-"

York sprung into action; surging forward and attempting to grab Race by the arm and pull him back into the parlor. "No! Sit the fuck down!"

"York," Myron shouted and snagged hold of his brother, wrapping his arms around York's torso and knocking him down to the floor. Race didn't look back. He kept running out the front door of the Brooklyn boarding house and into the familiar streets. "Shut up. Just let them work it out."

"But-"

"Spot can take care of himself." Myron shut him down. "Just focus on Hotshot right now? Please?" They both knew that York would never be able to move on if he didn't allow himself proper time to mourn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! This chapter is finally up! Sorry for such an incredibly long delay, I kept having issues with the drafts I have been working on where parts kept getting deleted or lost accidentally. This is like the fourth version of this chapter I think? Anyway, enjoy!


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